


in the shadows

by insertcleveracejoke



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Crowley being a seraph before falling is sabredyke's headcanon btw, Crowley thinks he's hallucinating at one point, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, Metatron is mentioned, Near Death Experiences, aziraphale throws up like twice I think, cleaning wounds the hard way, description of graphic wounds, i think thats it for now but warn me if I need to tag something else, lack of communication that was sadly necessary in the situation, nice to know, you guys really like the halo huh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-15 10:39:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16931727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insertcleveracejoke/pseuds/insertcleveracejoke
Summary: An angel's wings wouldn't do it. Demons still had those, if a bit better groomed.It would have to be an angel's halo.But angels were fiercely protective of their halos, with good reason. An angel deprived of their halo would never be truly human, but they couldn't do miracles, and their connection with Heaven, their aura, and their overall strength all heavily suffered. Crowley had heard it wasn't painful, just a sense of weakness and vulnerability that was terrifying for an immortal being. For it to ever happen was rare. Angels who took off their own halos always Fell, humans didn't have what was needed to touch them, and demons would never steal a halo. It was whispered that touching a halo- stealing it from an angel- was the worst death a demon could suffer. Worse than holy water.





	1. and how we just fell apart

Crowley never expected to do this.

Maybe he had considered doing so, in the Beginning, when he had only just Sauntered Downwards and the borders were all still fuzzy, no one quite sure what they really were. Over the centuries, though, all of them had learned the difference between occult and ethereal. Humans had invented holy water, which burned like- ha, like hell. Actually, Hell hurt less than that. It hurt like acid, which was not a human invention but oh, how they were quick to use it. It was exactly like that. Acid, quickly eating away skin and flesh and nerves and bones and soul…

Of course, Crowley was the only lucky one to know that for sure. Or at least the only lucky one who was still alive, to some definitions of it.

Humans invented prayers, invented kneeling, didn't invent hymns- oh and wouldn't Crowley know that- but the demon made sure that they messed that up as well. They damn well invented the crucifix. Crowley always thought it really fitting of humans that the symbol of their biggest religion used to be a tool of torture and death. And if it burned against his palm in the few times humans found what he was and tried to exorcize him- it was a small price to pay for the privilege of walking on Earth. So many things that hurt or killed demons were created by humans that hell really ought to hate them more.

A few things were created by Heaven. Holy weapons - like Aziraphale's flaming sword- could permanently kill a demon just as well as a soothing bath of holy water would. Smiting would discorporate, but the demon could come back after a bit of bureaucracy. And real symbols of holiness, if touched, could not only kill but sometimes kill slowly, poisoning, painfully. 

An angel's wings wouldn't do it. Demons still had those, if a bit better groomed. 

It would have to be an angel's halo.

But angels were fiercely protective of their halos, with good reason. An angel deprived of their halo would never be truly human, but they couldn't do miracles, and their connection with Heaven, their aura, and their overall strength all heavily suffered. Crowley had heard it wasn't painful, just a sense of weakness and vulnerability that was terrifying for an immortal being. For it to ever happen was rare. Angels who took off their own halos always Fell, humans didn't have what was needed to touch them, and demons would never steal a halo. It was whispered that touching a halo- stealing it from an angel- was the worst death a demon could suffer. Worse than holy water.

And yet, Crowley watched Aziraphale reading his book. He was sitting on the couch, the thick, dusty book on his lap, brows slightly furrowed in a way that shouldn't be this endearing. The concentration required to understand what was written seemed to slowly slip away from him while the demon watched, if he was judging by how the angel hadn't turned a page in ten minutes. His lashes, lighter than the golden brown of his hair, contrasted with his darker skin and reminded Crowley that his corporation could still blush. It was weirdly pleasant. Sunlight that illuminated the dust in the air and turned the bookshop into something that seemed out of a fairy tale turned his hair even more golden, a faint curve of light that shouldn't behave like that indicating something that wasn't usually visible could be seen (or, maybe more accurately, sensed) over Aziraphale's head.

Crowley took a deep breath his body didn't actually need but which his mind and nerves did. This was it. His hands were shaking, which was incredibly inconvenient for what he had come to do, but maybe- maybe it was good. Maybe it would- help Aziraphale believe it better- his heart that didn't need to beat couldn't slow down, either. Crowley supposed he couldn't resent it a last hurrah. 

It was a bugger, though. He had never- expected it to happen like this. He was a demon, for h- s- for something's sake, it wasn't supposed to go like this-

(But then again, said a voice in his head, you are a serpent.)

(You sang and you sang and you Fell because you dared to look.)

(You dared to be what was not wanted of you.)

Crowley reached out and grabbed a fistful of Aziraphale's sweater. When the angel looked up with wide eyes, surprised, he leaned in and planted a kiss on his lips.

Neither of them had ever kissed each other in six thousands of years. (Isn't this sad and beautiful, that this will be the first and last time?) (You always loved beautiful things) (You hate this one). His lips were chapped and soft, warmer like hot chocolate on his mouth, and Crowley could feel them opening. He thought it was surprise- and maybe it was, for a second or two- until he licked the demon's lower lip and Crowley gasped, finally closing his eyes. It was so tempting to just melt into this and forget everything.

(Will you dare this one time, too, old serpent?)

Crowley reached up and grabbed the fiery, burning thing over his head.

 

The pain made his mind blank.

Compared to it, holy water seemed like the pleasant burn of spice on his tongue. Pain shot through all of his body in such speed and intensity that each of his nerves just let go of the controls and gave up. Crowley's aura- his soul- screamed in agony so loudly all of the windows burst in shards of glass and its frames became splinters of wood, spreading themselves all over the shelves like bullets or words blurted out in moments of panic. (You're panicking now). His hands- his hands-

He stepped back and didn't dare look at your palms.

"Crowley-", Aziraphale croaked. His eyes were wide in terror, the demon vaguely noticed. Crowley hoped it wouldn't be too hard to get rid of the shards. A miracle- oh- but he couldn't- so that was what was in Aziraphale's eyes. Betrayal.

"Oh", Crowley said. He though about apologizing, so he did. "Sorry."

He remembered a duck sinking. Guilt swelled up inside of his ribcage. The duck had never been meant to drown. Did Crowley forget to let go of it? But he could still bring it back. Maybe Aziraphale wouldn't look so shocked if he did. Then again, maybe the angel would. He always insisted so much that Crowley wasn't capable of- but then again- he hadn't felt anything in Tadfield. Maybe Crowley really was broken. Maybe they took something when they sent him down. Maybe- why does it smell like barbecue?

Crowley looked down, and immediately wished he hadn't.

There was a circle of pure light on his hands, and his palms- they were burned and black and burning, coal, the white of his bones just visible under the halo- so that was why Aziraphale was upset, yes - something white and purple like poison climbing under his skin to his arms, the scales on his thin wrists rotting and starting to fall in a far cry from his usual shedding- he wondered if actual serpents could do that after they died- it looked like something that had been half incinerated and left to rot for two weeks. Part of his skin cracked as if patches of it could fall on the wooden floor at any moment.

Crowkey looked up again. Aziraphale had moved on from shock to anger, reaching out to him- a flaming sword that wasn't there, the eastern gate, an apple he offered- this time he bit it himself, no more lives ruined but his own- and Crowley barely remembered to twist the reality just enough for his feet to land on your flat's floor and, hopefully, for the rest of him to follow.

He couldn't let go. That he knew. So Crowley curled up and cried tears of blood, and he didn't know why he was still alive, and, for a few moments, he regretted he was.


	2. and you left me in the dark

Aziraphale was an angel.

He had been one since you were- well, not born. For as long as he existed. Dusty bookshops and the jumpers he so loved and the smell of old, well conserved books didn't change it. Aziraphale chose the Earth, the dirt that he could bury your hands into (except you wouldn't, the feeling of dirt under your fingernails was never something you were able to tolerate. Crowley, now-) and the dust all humans eventually crumbled into over the immaterial Heaven that had never actually made the effort to understand the Creation it claimed to love.

(You feel like that sentence is awfully familiar. You ignore it. Willing ignorance was always something you were good at, wasn't it?)

Even the lack of the halo Crowley had just snatched couldn't change it. But, judging by how weak his corporation felt, and how hard it was to clean even a few shards of glass, it might as well have had. Aziraphale didn't bother. Curling up on his couch seemed like a far more tempting option. 

Aziraphale wasn't sure if his legs would stand walking, so he didn't even try, but a cup of water (or, better yet, tea) seemed better than a chest full of gold at the moment. He waved a trembling hand before remembering he wouldn't, he couldn't be able to miracle one right now. His jaw clenched almost by itself.

Crowley. Crowley had stolen his halo. But why? And how- how hadn't he… he was supposed to be dead. Was he dying at this exact moment? Most demons died quickly, Aziraphale remembered hearing, but some lasted longer. Crowley should be one of the latter. He had had thousands of years to get used to the presence of holiness, what with their Arrangement, so it would kill him so slowly, the halo poisoning his very soul until nothing was left… Aziraphale closed his eyes. He had seen Crowley's hands, burning and rotten, and the vague, disoriented look in the demon's face, and he didn't know how to. How to deal with it. He wasn't supposed to be worried. He was supposed to be furious…

But Crowley's hands had cracked and rotted and…

(You're always angry, but it's not usual for you to be this concerned.)

Aziraphale leaned forwards and threw up over the shards of glass on the floor. It wasn't pleasant. The last time the angel had thrown up while sober had been four thousands of years ago at the very least. He hadn't been looking forward to breaking that streak, especially now that he wasn't quite sure if he could walk to the bathroom to brush his teeth. Aziraphale threw weak legs to the left of where he had vomited and, supporting himself with the help of the arm of the couch, tried to stand up. He nearly collapsed immediately.

"When I find Crowley", he said through gritted teeth, both hand on the wall while he tried to walk, "I'll kill him."

Except he wouldn't need to. Because Crowley had stolen his halo. Just after he had kissed him.

Aziraphale tried very hard not to think about that kiss. Or about Crowley dying. Or about his lack of a halo, thought that was getting increasingly harder the longer taking a step was taking. He tried instead to think about what he should do. It wasn't easy. Or useful, for what matters. 

No matter what Aziraphale tried to came up with, he could only think of one thing. He needed to find Crowley and take his halo back. (Aziraphale tried not to imagine Crowley dead, just a fistful of ashes and something putrid on his flat's floor, and failed.) The demon must be still alive. The halo would have returned if he had let go of it or let it drop. But why did he care? Crowley was the reason behind his current situation.

The bastard. Aziraphale clenched his jaw and tried to stop the fury that had started to sink its talons on his shoulders, whispering words of wrath and hatred that he hadn't thought in thousands of years, hadn't even considered before that, and surely never applied to that fucking demon. Tempting him to drink, to eat, to- had the kiss been just a distraction? Of course. It had to have been. Or else why had Crowley waited for so long, long after the end of the world they had waited, to press his mouth against Aziraphale's and kiss him like that? And the angel, a fool that he had been, had kissed him back. (You waited and waited and waited and this is what you get for befriending the Enemy. You get weakness in your limbs and hatred in your soul.)

After so many centuries, so many meetings in dark alleys and markets and ruins, help given to each other, Crowley had finally decided to betray him. (But why? There's nothing he would gain from stealing your halo. You know it). They had been ready to fight together at the end of the times. They had been ready to die by each other's side and the angel had thought that was not a bad way to go. And yet.

Aziraphale had always been quicker to anger than an angel should have been. At that moment, his hand itched for his flaming sword. 

He imagined it burning through Crowley's body and soul, erasing his existence forever, and bend over to throw up again.

How dare he?, Aziraphale thought, when his corporation had stopped betraying him. How dare he steal my halo? How dare he kiss me? How dare he do it without any meaning behind it, how dare he burn his hands, how dare he go and die and leave me here alone-

(How dare he love you.)

(How dare he not.)

Aziraphale wanted his hands around Crowley's throat, strangling, wanted them on his face, cradling, pulling the demon closer, wanted to bite, to growl, to kiss- he wanted to ask why and he wasn't sure if he wanted an answer. He clenched his fists. 

The ceiling lit up.

"Fuck", Aziraphale said in the few seconds it usually took for Heaven to connect. He couldn't quite bring himself to regret it.

 

He listened carefully to what Metatron had to say, and then waited until the light went out to bend over and vomit a third time. It was just bile now. Aziraphale was panting by the time he went out of his bookshop and stopped by his suspicious neighbor to ask for a favor, sweat dripping from his forehead and heart heavy in his chest. All the anger had gone out like a candle blown by the wind.

 

(You hope it's not too late.)

(You'd pray, and isn't it so meaningful that you don't?)

(You've had greater faith in him than in Him for centuries now. It's time you acknowledge it.)


	3. one day you will hear me

Crowley hadn't moved since he miracled himself to his flat and curled up on the ground.

The halo burned and destroyed his hands with vengeful fury that reminded him of what had been done to Sodom and Gomorra. Crowley so often forgot Aziraphale had been a guardian and a warrior. It shouldn't come to him as such a shock that his halo was so violent while destroying him from inside out, especially if Aziraphale was mad at him- and why wouldn't he be? The demon had kissed him, snatched his halo, disappeared.

(You need to live for time enough, but you don't know how long it is.)

(You don't know if you'll be able to.)

Crowley cling to the circle of pure light and ignored the way it ate his flesh. He was weirdly calm, realized. The halo felt like Aziraphale even as it broke him down piece by piece, slowly consuming his soul, poisoning his body with streaks of white and purple where it should be blue with veins. Crowley hated it. And yet- why was it taking so long? He leaned back on the wall and closed snake eyes. His lungs didn't seem to know how to draw breath in. It didn't matter. Breathing was more of a habit than a need, and breathing in and out wouldn't be of much help at the moment, anyway. It wasn't as if he were waiting for a rescue.

He reserved a moment to hope that Aziraphale would be alright. To pray- not to Him, but to something- that the angel would wind end up fine, and, a little selfishly (but then again, that was just his nature, wasn't it) that Aziraphale would forgive him. Once Crowley died, the halo would come back to the angel. Hopefully, Crowley would have delayed it for time enough.

Then his heart stopped. And started to beat again. 

Something inside of him convulsed, his spine arching back without any fair warning, and in middle of the pain Crowley was reminded of those terrible exorcism movies. Deliriously he wondered if a priest could have expulsed the demonic part of his soul and returned it to its original angelic nature. Probably not. There were no second chances in Heaven. He gasped, his fingers tightening around the halo and cutting themselves as if with wire, immediately cauterizing. His aura pulsed. Was this death? Crowley didn't remember seeing this anywhere- what was happening to him- the sides of his face were suddenly cold, something- two things- erupted from his forehead and curved themselves until they hit the wall, claws and fangs showing without his permission- was the halo revealing his true nature? Shouldn't he become a serpent, then?

No, Crowley thought, feverish. If it was showing his true nature, it should begin with the halo he had been forced to leave behind when he forgot he was a seraph and looked. The first time he had made use of free will. Of course, Aziraphale would have said it had all been destined. Damn- blessed ineffability. Explain, then, he wanted to shout, how a demon destined to be evil and an angel destined to be good decided to be friends? And the Aziraphale answered in his head: Didn't you just steal something of mine, dear?

(You're not evil. You know it. If you had been, you wouldn't be here, dying with an angel's halo in your hands.)

(Had you been good, you wouldn't be here either, but you would have been alone forever.)

(You're not evil. You're not good. You're just you.)

(Pray it's enough.)

Crowley closed eyes he hadn't realized he had opened and cried tears of blood. No matter what happened today, his shirt would be ruined. 'But I'll always know it's there, deep down', Aziraphale had said, and in his delirious state Crowley imagined it was being said now. "You've been always been too worried about your clothes for someone who still thinks tartan is fashionable", he said to his imaginary angel. Crowley wondered if he should be alarmed when an answer came. Instead, only relief that he wouldn't die completely alone filled his heart. This was better than the alternative.

"Oh, my dear", the imaginary Aziraphale knelt down in front of him and Crowley blinked away tears. "What a state you are in." The angel wiped the blood from his face with chubby fingers that felt too real.

"M'ssssorry", he managed to slur out.

"We'll talk about blame later, dear boy". The false Aziraphale reached down to his halo and seemed to startle when Crowley flinched away. "Crowley, you need to give me it back."

"No, it'sss gonna, whatsss it, go back, anyway. I need to- I need to- time enough-"

"Oh, my dear", the imaginary Aziraphale's voice sounded pained. "It's okay. It's been enough time."

"Promissse?"

"I promise."

"Oh, good", Crowley said, leaning his head back. His horns sank through the wall as if it were good. "Azi- Aziraph- the angel'sss gonna kill me anyway, though. I ssstole hisss halo, you know."

The false angel faltered. "Did you?", he carefully asked, opening Crowley's fists finger by finger, gently avoiding hurting him further. "Don't you think I'm going to forgive you?"

"You're jusst, whatsss itss name- a pigment. A pig. Of my imagination." Crowley contemplated his sentence. "Hallucination. Halo-cination. Ha."

"Very clever, my dear", the false angel said dryly. 

"Aziraphale'sss never gonna forgive me", the demon said to the creation of his delirious state. "He alwayss thought I wassn't, ya know, able to…", he cringed, "feel love. He ought to be thinking I only kisssed him as a distraction."

The imaginary angel had finally liberated one of his hands and Crowley hissed in pain as its skin started to try to heal itself. The chubby, soft fingers kept opening the other fist. They hesitated. "And didn't you?", Aziraphale asked. 

"No. 'Coursse not."

"Then why did you kiss m- him?"

Crowley smiled vaguely at the ceiling. He felt safe now, at the end of his six thousand long life. It was a weird feeling. Yes, safe and warm, finally, and with Aziraphale - never mind that it was a fake, imagined version of him, since the true thing would probably have ended his suffering by now with his flaming sword or its nearest simile. It wasn't such a bad way to die. He didn't know what the other demons were talking about.

His other fist finally let go of the halo.

"It was a goodbye", he said, and everything went dark.


	4. taking back my halo

Aziraphale held Crowley in his arms and tried not to cry. 

He looked awful. Hands burned and rotting because of the halo he had been clinging to so tightly that Aziraphale had had a hard time prying it off him without hurting him more, scales covering half of his face and neck in a way that the angel really didn't think had been purposeful, his black horns with plaster all over them where they had sank into the wall, and, while he didn't think Crowley had noticed that, the burns had climbed over his arms, following his veins. His claws and fangs had cut into his palms and lower lip in a way that was very probably accidental. 

Crowley, quite frankly, looked like a corpse. The only thing that told Aziraphale that he was still alive was the birdlike pulse under his finger and the fact that he hadn't crumbled into ashes yet.

The angel thought about picturing running Crowley through with his sword and winced, feeling guilty. Now that he was seeing the demon like that, it seemed just completely impossible to ever mean him any harm. Perhaps it should have alarmed Aziraphale to feel like that about the Enemy. It didn't. He adjusted Crowley in his arms and tried to stand up, immediately falling back on his knees and yelping with the pain of the impact with the floor. Oh, yes. There was still that unpleasant business with his own halo to solve. 

Grimacing, Aziraphale let it go. The halo instantaneously came back to hovering over his head. It hurt- the angel had expected it too, after the contact it had had with a demon, and after- but not as much as he had feared. It was more like a pleasant burn. A little like finally getting rid of a splinter, or like cleaning a wound, it was more relief than pain. Crowley had held it back for time enough that it wouldn't be able to hurt Aziraphale anymore. He would have to-

But the demon was the priority right now. Finally back to his full strength, the angel easily stood up and carried Crowley to his bedroom, which at first sight looked as sterile as the rest of his apartment if you didn't notice how comfortable the bed looked, and how the blankets looked way more worn than you would expect from someone who could get new ones or return the old to their original state with barely a thought. Aziraphale carefully laid Crowley on the bed, over the covers, and tried to think of what he should do.

 

What Metatron had told him was this.

 

All around the world, angels had died.

Not being discorporated. Actually died. That had never happened before without the hand of Lucifer or another angel's betrayal.

They had been poisoned. Aziraphale knew it from the first description of the symptoms. The angels were slowly being destroyed from inside out, unholiness pouring into their souls and corrupting them in a way that had never been meant to be, causing them not to Fall but to be destroyed. Utterly erased. Purple streaks where the blue of their veins should have been, Metatron had said, their very flesh rotting. Too late, Aziraphale had realized what had happened. He told the Voice to take the survivors to Heaven and take out their halos for a while. He hadn't heard an answer yet. He didn't need one.

It had taken longer than one would guess to realize that holiness was what could permanently kill demons. Flaming swords and holy water had very few things in common. It also explained why some humans could ban demons without the help of the usual tools, and why some could exorcize while others were little more than charlatans. Metatron would never admit it had been humans who had first made the connection.

Aziraphale had been sure of few things after the Apocalypse, and one of them was this: Not matter what Heaven or Hell said about it later, it had been a human who had figured out the opposite was also, as it often happened, the true. Crowley kept saying they were so much holier than angels could be and so much more demonic than demons themselves could become. He should have listened.

(You should have known.)

(Why would the same being who was willing to die by your side steal your halo without a reason?)

(You're alive right now. Be grateful. He knew he might not have been.)

 

Aziraphale pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and breathed in, breathed out, tried to think. Angels were dying, or maybe they weren't if Metatron had heard his advice. Either way it wasn't on his hands anymore. Crowley was very possibly still dying from a mix of holiness and unholy poison, and half of his hands and arms were basically falling apart. Aziraphale could heal the burns caused by his own halo. He couldn't heal the poison, and he doubted that other demon would offer him help. The situation wasn't quite desperate enough to try that. So what did he have to work with? A dying demon, his own healing powers, and whatever Crowley kept in the-

Oh. He was an idiot. 

(That's not new, is it?)

Aziraphale ignored his own thoughts and went to get the bottle in the small safe Crowley had mentioned when telling him his part of what had happened in the Apocalypse that wasn't. He very, very carefully brought it to the bedroom and put it on the nightstand before miracling himself some cotton and enough bandages to wrap a corpse. The holy water stung a little when he opened the bottle and dabbed a small ball of cotton on it until it was not really wet, but damp enough to do the job. 

Crowley's face looked unnaturally expressionless and so very, very young under the scales and dry blood. Aziraphale found himself wanting to cry again. He wasn't a natural crier, being actually quite insensitive (How had Crowley put it? Oh, yes. A bastard), but the thought of what had happened, what he was about to do… Especially after what he knew Crowley had seen with the Inquisition. Reluctance was an euphemism. But it needed to be done- and, at his heart, Aziraphale had always been a much more pragmatic being than Crowley had ever pretended to be.

He pressed the cotton damp with holy water into the rotten flesh of the demon's hand and didn't wait until his friend had stopped screaming to keep doing it with the rest of his arm.


	5. in the shadows

Crowley woke up. That was surprising. He hadn't expected to.

More surprising was the fact that, even though the last thing he remembered had been an excruciating pain in his hands and arms, he was feeling no pain now. Had actually never felt better. Crowley didn't know what that meant- was there some kind of afterlife for demons? He sure hoped not, if it was anything like Hell. Taking a deep breath and reveling in the fact that he could once again breathe without his lungs feeling like they would collapse, Crowley finally opened his eyes.

He was in his bed, blinking at the dim warm light that surely didn't come from any of his old sterile lamps- oh, sunlight. His arms and hands were fully covered in bandages, as if someone had been very careful not to let any wounds left lead to an infection, and Crowley was mildly surprised when he managed to move his fingers painlessly. Not Hell, then. Nothing there was painless. His horns and claws seemed to have disappeared, which was probably a good thing- he didn't know if he wanted to see them at the moment. The scales were bad enough. Crowley looked up.

Aziraphale smiled warmly at him from where he was sitting by his bedside, the dusty book he had been reading when they- oh- when they kissed resting on his lap, still apparently ignoring it for the sake of looking at Crowley. The angel had bags under his eyes despite not actually needing to sleep and there seemed to be a few more grey hairs in his hair, but nothing else, no purple streaks in his arms or rotting flesh, looking more or less the same as before. Aziraphale reached out a hand-

(the flaming sword the eastern gate a guardian a warrior the wrath in his eyes his halo in your hands burning skin flesh tendon bones-)

Crowley flinched and closed his eyes, his arms coming up to protect his face without any conscious command.

"My dear", Aziraphale said. His voice sounded sad, but not surprised.. "I'm not going to hurt you."

(No?)

"Wh-What in h- what on Earth happened?", Crowley said, feeling warmth reaching his neck in a way that he really hoped didn't mean he was blushing with the shame of having misinterpreted Aziraphale's intention.

"I rather think you got hurt enough, don't you agree?"

Crowley closed his eyes for a second and tried not to remember the sheer fury that had emanated from the halo. "I guess." He opened them again and frowned at Aziraphale, fidgeting with the sheets. "And what are you doing here?"

The angel frowned indignant and opened his mouth.

"I know why you came here, but why are you still here now? You have your halo back. I'm not apologizing for taking it. And you said you're not going to hurt me, so why-"

Aziraphale reached out and carefully touched Crowley's hand. The demon froze, eyes wide.

(Why are you so surprised?)

(Six thousands of years, and he kissed you back. He's still here. You think he'll always be.)

(You should know by now not to take him for granted, demon.)

"Thank you", Aziraphale said. "You put yourself at risk to save me. You know, Crowley, I know I said-"

"I know, I know, spark of goodness", Crowley grumbled, weirdly pleased and not even a little willing to show it.

"No. I mean, yes. That's not what I was saying, though. I know what I said in Tadfield, and I was… wrong. I should have realized it sooner."

Crowley stared at him. He picked at the bandages with his free hand until Aziraphale held that one too, gently, and then he looked away and sighed. They both pretended his face wasn't pink. It was too soon for that kind of teasing yet. "Er, uh, well, thanks, angel. Just don't go around announcing it. I have a reputation, you know."

Aziraphale smiled. "Of course, my dear. May I ask you a question, though?"

"Sure. It can't get worse."

"Why did you snatch my halo yourself? You knew you were at risk, and I could have taken it myself. You didn't need to get hurt."

"Yes, angel, and how kindly would Heaven take to you of all angels taking off your halo?", Crowley snapped. "We're- I know the kid told us not to worry, but let's be realist, Heaven and Hell are just itching for a chance to fire us. Most angels that took off their halos Fell. I couldn't take that risk."

"But you could risk your life."

"Well obviously I wasn't going to sit around and drink wine by myself for all eternity- stop grinning, angel. That would be even more boring than Hell", Crowley said. "I was just being selfish."

"Of course, dear", Aziraphale said. There was a suggestion of a grin still on his face, but his eyes looked warm, fondness in each part of his expression.

"Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you-", he started, but Aziraphale had already leaned in and pressed his mouth against his. He stopped trying to argue.

The angel let go of one of Crowley's hands to put a hand on his hand, thumb brushing the scales over one of his eyes. It was so warm. Crowley closed his eyes and melted, bandaged hands resting on Aziraphale's sides. His angel's lips were dry and chapped- he thought they had looked as if Aziraphale had been biting them- but strangely pleasant to touch. He let out a sigh against Aziraphale's mouth.

Pulling away a little, his angel kissed Crowley's forehead. The demon slowly leaned forwards until his face rested on Aziraphale's shoulder and the angel put his arms around him, soft and comfortable in a way that no one else had ever been. Crowley thought if he could just curl up like this for a little longer, he could have fallen asleep again in a matter of minutes. For once in his life, though, he wanted to stay awake. That was new.

"Is this a goodbye?", Crowley asked, eyes still closed.

"No. This is a hello."

(You think it was worth it, after all, to look.)

(You never quite liked to sing. You much prefer this, warm hands on your skin, a smile on his face.)

(You hope you never have to say goodbye again.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter, but there's still going to be an epilogue!


	6. Epilogue - I know you remember

Crowley watched Aziraphale read his book on their couch and couldn't help but to smile, despite the memories it brought up.

The angel looked so soft in the light filtered by the many houseplants Crowley kept near the windows of their cottage. There was now no sign of the bags under his eyes that the demon remembered, even though Aziraphale seemed to have decided to keep the grey hairs, maybe as a reminder. Why would he want to remember that, Crowley didn't know, but he found he didn't mind. Not when Aziraphale looked up at him like that, that same fondness and lo- care in his eyes that he had only recently realized had been there for thousands of years. The angel reached up and grabbed the collar of Crowley's pristine shirt, bringing him down for a kiss. The demon smiled against his lips.

"Why, hello there, angel", he said after a few moments, pulling away to be able to sit by his side. Aziraphale set the book aside and pulled Crowley to his lap. "Eager, aren't we?"

"Can you blame me, my dear?", he smiled, giving the demon another chaste kiss.

In no way, Crowley thought, but didn't say anything. His lips were quite busy. 

Aziraphale's hair was soft under his touch, Crowley's fingers tangling themselves in the curly strands, and he thought about those grey hairs. They looked like silver in a stark contrast with the golden brown of the rest. After all, the demon decided, he quite liked them. Crowley pulled away and smiled. "Someone's corporation is growing older, I think", he said, playing with the grey.

"And whose fault do you think it is?", Aziraphale said, but there was no bite in his voice. 

"Obviously all that tartan is making your corporation adapt to the only age it is acceptable to wear that-"

The angel seemed conflicted between laughing or looking offended. He settled by shaking his head in a terribly loving way and kissing the blush in Crowley's cheeks. "My dear, are you complaining?", he said amused. 

"I'm really not, angel."

"Good-"

"I just think we'll have to make it more clear that we're together, or else people will think I'm taking my uncle out-", Crowley started, smirking.

Aziraphale's hand wound up on the back of the demon's neck, pulling him closer. "That's not a problem, dear", he said, and kissed him again.

 

It was a peaceful life, here. Crowley had never expected to like peace. 

His houseplants found their place nearby Aziraphale's many, many books. Some tomes ended up on the windowsills, at least when it wasn't raining, and some of his more stubborn plants thrived on shelves that had previously held Wilde's collection. There wasn't as much dust as there had been in the bookshop. Crowley would never admit that in his own home. But the cottage also didn't have that minimalism that his previous flat had had- and neither did he want it to. The cottage felt like home. 

Leaving London hadn't been such a hard choice, despite everything. They had traveled the world before and very likely would do it again in the far future (and isn't it amazing that they have a future to plan now?). Crowley thought he could have curled up in any corner of this cottage in his shape of serpent and slept for a century and nothing would have bothered him- Aziraphale wouldn't have allowed anything to do it. He wouldn't, though. Curiously, he found that his willingness to stay awake had stayed. At least during the day- at night Aziraphale finally relented and snuggled with him in bed.

He now experienced that curious state of mind in which one is not quite awake yet but is faintly aware of what is happening around them. His head was pillowed in Aziraphale's chest, who seemed to still be asleep judging by his breathing, an arm over the angel's stomach and legs tangled with his. Crowley didn't open his eyes. It was warm, it was safe, it was comfortable.

(You finally found a place where you belong, didn't you?)

He smiled.

 

Aziraphale sometimes looked at himself in the mirror and searched for the telltale faint light of his halo.

It was still greyer than it should probably be, but there had been no physical consequences- at least, he corrected himself with a grimace, not to him. Metatron had seen fit to inform him that the angels they had called to Heaven had survived. Crowley had told him- one of the first things, after their kiss- that he hadn't had time to do anything else. That Hell had only warned him a few minutes before he had run to the bookshop. There had been no time. Aziraphale believed him. 

He found that the find that most bothered him about the situation wasn't his own grey hairs or even the scars that wouldn't fade quickly in Crowley's arms and hands. It was the memories. Not even those of having his halo snatched, or seeing the state of his demon for the first time, but the memory of burning the unholy wounds with holy water so that he could heal Crowley. The demon didn't seem to care much about that. Aziraphale had learned how to sleep, though, and had learned how to wake up from nightmares almost at the same time.

He pressed his hands against the sink and tried not to smile when Crowley put his arms around his middle from behind and kissed his temple. 

"You'll end up giving yourself wrinkles to match the grey in your hair."

"I can see you watching my hair, dear. I think it's a little too late to pretend you don't like it."

Crowley snorted. "It's never too late."

(It almost was, you think, watching the pure joy on his face. But it wasn't.)

(Not to either of you.)

"Do you think your side will try to poison angels again?"

"Not my side, angel. But no. I don't think so. There was a human behind that, you can mark my words, and Hell is more afraid of changes in status quo than they'd like to admit. They'll stay quiet for a century or two."

"Good", Aziraphale said. "And dear?"

"Yes?"

"If that does happen, warn me. There's risks you can't take, and then there's a risk I can't."

Crowley hid a smile against Aziraphale's shoulder.

"Okay, angel."


End file.
